


Drummond Breaks the Engagement

by iWantMyDrumfredBack (BornBlue)



Series: Drummond Is Not Dead [1]
Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Drumfred, Edward Drummond Lives, Happy Ending, Lord Alfred looms large but isn't an actual character in this story, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, because of course Drummond lives in my version of events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-06 05:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14049681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BornBlue/pseuds/iWantMyDrumfredBack
Summary: (In which I continue an alternative story, because I can’t do a worse job than the writers of the show.)Now that Edward and Alfred have patched things up, all that remains between them and a future is the damned engagement. Drummond sets out to correct his mistake and set his life on a happier track.





	Drummond Breaks the Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> A disclaimer: this story is riddled with statements about conventions of the time which I've since learned are incorrect. So the narrative here is pretty much completely unrealistic, but I enjoyed the ride of imagining it anyway. Take everything with a grain of salt and you'll be fine.

It had been a tremendously exhausting day, and all Drummond wanted was to collapse in his bed. Perhaps he would just tumble in fully clothed. It really didn’t matter to him right now, as long as he might sleep soundly until the morning. He had endured a string of sleepless nights, being often awakened by vivid dreams—both good and bad—and worries of the days ahead.

In the shock of a bullet aimed at him that was blessedly diverted, he had resolved the night before to break off his engagement with Miss Florence Kerr, daughter of the Marquess of Lothian. He had come so close to his own death that he could practically taste hot lead on his lips. One did not walk away from such an event unchanged. He had held his life at arm’s length, looking in on it as might a judge evaluating the merits of a case. Frankly, he had found it wanting.

Long ago he had set a path for himself that included political aspirations and, as was naturally presumed, marriage. He had settled on a woman he was fond of, but for whom he felt neither love nor genuine desire; he had assumed these affections would follow in time. Marriage was a negotiation to be approached rationally, and he had done so with the goal of securing a suitable wife who would help advance his career, offer him pleasant company when he wished, bear the children he was expected to sire, and keep a home that was fashionable for entertaining and comfortable for family life. She would be a helpmate to facilitate his professional and social climb. Not once had the thought of consummation entered his mind. Oh, he knew the mechanics of it—he had learned that from friends at Oxford, who would regale him with tales of their visits to the brothels while Drummond had stayed in his room, studying late into the night. He had his family’s wealth, but unlike most of them, no title, so he felt constantly driven to prove himself. He had always assumed he was simply more industrious than his peers—more motivated—because he would have to make his own way in the world, having determined that the family bank was not to be his destination. It had never occurred to him that he hadn’t even the inkling of a desire to join his friends in their recreations.

So an engagement had been secured with a young woman with whom he had been acquainted for many years. Old family friends, he and Florence had known each other practically all their lives. From a young age, his parents had encouraged the match; her graces, charm, and lineage would benefit their Edward greatly in his professional aspirations. And they were hopeful that his kind regard for the girl might help their son establish with her a satisfying union much like their own. In turn, he offered Florence a future husband of great intellect, diligent work ethic, measured ambition, and political promise. His physical attractions were a welcome bonus—his good looks and pleasant demeanor were widely remarked upon, making them a most handsome couple indeed. Florence had been known to occasionally ponder how beautiful their children were bound to be.

But after the die was cast, Drummond had grown closer—first professionally and then personally—with the queen’s equerry, the delightful Lord Alfred Paget, and he had begun to feel trapped in a plan that now appeared fundamentally flawed. Florence didn’t know him—not the real him, not the him he wanted to be known by _someone_ —and his feelings for this man had grown absolutely unmistakable over time. He had hoped he could ignore them, extinguish them, reason them away and lock them out of his mind, but when Lord Alfred was in the room (and they were _so often_ in rooms together during his many visits to the palace), Drummond’s attention was invariably drawn to the beautiful man standing opposite. Fighting it was futile. At first he told himself stories to explain it away, but eventually these all rang hollow and he had come to understand how very much he _desired_ Alfred. Not Florence nor anyone else. No one but Alfred. He knew this was wrong—flouting as it did both the church and the law—but he couldn’t help himself. He had never in his life felt so alive as when he was in Alfred’s company, and having shared a kiss on the royal trip to Scotland, he knew with absolute certainty that Alfred was the only person he wanted. It could not be justified in the eyes of society, but it could also not be wished away.

When he had first told Alfred upon their return to London of his plans to break off his engagement, he was most distressed at the way Alfred condescended, speaking to him as though he were a dim-witted child to be reprimanded. The same man who had only days before looked into his eyes with unreserved affection and returned his fevered kisses was now dismissing those beautiful moments as a mere indiscretion, which made Drummond angrier than he’d ever been in his life. He had stormed out of the restaurant—indignant, hurt, and confused. He was unable to return to the old ideas of an engagement and marriage, understanding his own desires so much better than he had before; yet he was also unable to move forward into some kind of a future with the man he adored. He had felt certain his feelings were requited, but began to question that, torturing himself by re-examining memories that had once tasted sweet, but now turned bitter on his tongue. Nothing made sense anymore.

He had thrown himself back into work, concentrating on the vexing vote to repeal the Corn Laws, hoping he could return to the quagmire of his personal life later and with a clearer head. And then just yesterday, a letter from Alfred seemed to extend an olive branch by inviting him to a resurrected dinner at the same restaurant. It had lifted his heart and he had determined to meet Alfred that night with a hope of finding some way forward, together. That evening’s engagement had nearly been permanently cancelled when Drummond found himself at the end of a gun. Having looked down its barrel before the pistol was pushed toward the sky, he gained a clarity he’d never had before. Fresh from that experience, he had determined to live his life as one might curate a museum—selectively choosing the most valuable items to cherish and display.

That meant discarding the rest, which included his plans for marriage and his engagement to Florence. He had finally made Alfred understand what had driven him to make such a radical choice, and so this man who made his heart sing had agreed to find some way to be together in this new—what? friendship? love? relationship? Drummond wasn’t sure what to call it; he only knew that he and Alfred were bound together in desire, affection, and a secret that only they could share.

And so this morning, he had penned a note to Florence, asking to be received at her parents’ town house in the evening. Her reply suggested he come early and stay to dinner with her family, but he knew that wouldn’t be possible once he had broken his news. He responded with some excuse about evening sessions required to complete the legislative calendar, but that he would have some time to come see her before he must return to the House. Would that be acceptable to her? Her affirmative answer reached him with little delay.

After that, he turned his attentions to work so as to forget about the stone in the pit of his stomach. How he would tell her, he did not yet know; only that it was best not to put it off. He hoped to phrase it in such a way that she might be less inclined to sue for breach of contract, and he also wished to spare her as much humiliation as possible, for he knew she would likely pay the highest social price for his mistake. As skilled as he was in shaping political arguments, he was having terrible trouble finding a tactic that might be effective in this matter of the heart. Instead, he tried not to think of it, even though he knew he needed a plan.

 

* * *

 

The day had dragged on. Every time the approaching appointment entered his mind, time seemed to slow even further and torture him with the many possible consequences. First, there was Florence’s own reaction. Would she be distraught? Angry? Disbelieving? Would she sob or throw things at him? Or would she sit stoically with no indication of her feelings at all? Then, there might be a severe financial blow to his family’s fortune, were Florence to sue for breach of contract. Of course, not to be underestimated was the damage gossip could do, tarnishing her reputation and perhaps raising questions of him that he would never be able to answer to anyone’s satisfaction. And under all of it loomed grave danger for Alfred and himself were the true nature of their friendship ever to be discovered.

All the worries crowded out his ability to think of an approach. He found himself more and more afraid that nothing would come to him. He had simply assumed some strategy would surface in his mind over the course of the day, but he had likewise assumed when he proposed to Florence that his desire for her would eventually grow, and _that_ had turned out to be an awful mistake. Had he been hasty in setting this deadline for their conversation when he still had no idea how to broach the topic with her?

Eventually, it was time to go. He had decided to walk to the Marquess’ home on the Strand so he might clear his mind and write some kind of a speech in his head. With each step he felt like a dead man ascending the scaffold. The only things that kept him walking forward were the memory of that pistol and the fact that his first thought had been a desperate fear that he would never see Alfred again.

He was almost to their house with still no thought of what to say. As he approached the door, he took a deep breath and—picturing Alfred’s expectant face at that Scottish lake as he seemed to wordlessly command Drummond to kiss him—he reached out and firmly pulled the bell. He may not know quite _how_ to say his piece, but he knew he must say it nonetheless.

Everything then moved very quickly, as time seemed to accelerate. He found himself  waiting for Florence in the drawing room, hoping she would take her time so he could come up with something… anything… to say to her. But before he knew it, she was whisking into the room, her face brightened by a radiant smile. His heart fell. He did not want to be the reason that smile was about to disappear, yet there was no way around it.

She approached him with lively steps, exclaiming, “Edward, my dear! I was so delighted to hear from you today. I have made many decisions about our wedding that I wish to tell you.” As she reached him, she took his hands in hers and offered him her cheek to kiss. He did so, trying hard to neither offend nor give a false impression of his feelings and purpose.

“Florence, before you do, I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you.” His face must have looked quite serious, because Florence’s smile quickly evaporated, replaced with acute concern.

“Oh, my. You don’t look at all well. Perhaps we should sit, Edward.” He gratefully motioned for her to be seated first. He took his place next to her, taking her hands tentatively in his. “What can it be, my dear? You are worrying me.”

“I’m so sorry, Florence. I never mean to cause you any distress; please remember that.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“I don’t know whether news has reached you of the attempt on the Prime Minister’s life last night?”

“How awful! No, I hadn’t heard. Is he… quite alright?”

“Yes, yes, he is. In fact, no one was injured, thank God, and the assailant is now in gaol.”

“Oh, such a relief!”

“It is, but something happened—or, rather, something _almost_ happened—that… changed me. Before the gun was thankfully diverted by an alert bystander, it was pointing directly at… not Sir Robert… but me.”

She gasped sharply. “My dear! How dreadful! I can’t imagine what I would have—“

“Please, Florence, I know this is a shock, but I need to finish telling you.”

“Of course.” She appeared to compose herself, but her eyes were clouded with concern.

“I have never known such a moment in my entire life. To be staring down the barrel of a gun, feeling certain it was about to be fired at me and probably end my life… it shook me, and it made me think very carefully about my future. Today feels like a gift I might never have been given.” Florence’s face was still worried, but did he also see a bit of suspicion now?

“We have known each other for such a very long time; I can’t quite remember my life without you in it. You have been a constant for me. I have so many fond memories of you from childhood; you have always been sweet and pleasant, and you’ve grown into such a lovely woman.”

Florence emitted a nervous laugh. “Edward, your words are dear, but you have already proposed to me, and I accepted, as you may recall. Whatever could this be about?”

His head seemed to be swimming; he couldn’t quite find the words he needed. “It’s about the future. Your future, my future. We’ve been such a part of each other’s pasts that I never considered… whether we really _should_ be bound together for our futures.” Florence’s face fell and appeared to freeze in place as her eyes grew dark and her brow furrowed. “When I was forced to look at my life, I realized what a disservice I have done to you. Of course, you are everything I imagined I wanted in a wife, but I care for you too much to deny you the opportunity to marry a man who would love you as a wife should be loved. I thought I could be that man, but if I’m honest with myself and with you, I am not. You are very dear to me, but as a friend or perhaps a sister might be. And you deserve more than that, Florence. You deserve better than me.”

Silence. He waited for her face to change, for some expression that would tell him what would come next. They sat in silence for what felt to him like hours, until he saw tears welling up in her eyes. She didn’t look away from him as they began to roll down her cheeks.

“You are breaking our engagement, then. Is that what I am to understand?”

Drummond took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m afraid I am.”

“And you are telling me it’s for my own good.”

“I suppose you could say it that way.”

“I don’t understand this at all. Am I not good enough for you? Did I displease you somehow? Have you already made plans to marry someone else?”

“No, none of that, dear Florence. If anything, I am the one who is not good enough for _you_. I want to spare you every unhappiness. I know it doesn’t look that way at the moment, but I believe a future with me would lead to much greater sorrow in years to come than any distress you may feel now. I cannot do it to you. You deserve so much more than I could ever give.”

“Edward, my dearest, you can’t honestly believe I could ever be unhappy as your wife?” The tears were still rolling down Florence’s face. Drummond remembered his manners and offered her his handkerchief. She looked down at it and then back to his face. He’d never seen such sadness in her eyes, and he’d been with her when the beloved family dog, Phoebe, had been killed in a hunting accident. As she took his handkerchief, tears began to give way to convulsive sobs. Drummond braced himself; this was just the kind of scene he had hoped to avoid. Should he put an arm around her, or would that simply confuse matters? How could he be comforting? He felt awful that he’d done this to her; he was at a total loss as to what to say or do, so he just sat there, motionless.

Florence choked out through her tears, “This is a mistake, Edward. You don’t really mean this, do you?”

Drummond’s shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes. He had to stay strong, as horrible as this was. He pictured Alfred’s face again, recalling the moment after their first kiss and the image of his eyelashes fluttering upward as his translucent blue eyes met Drummond’s gaze. It was a moment as sublime as anything he could think of and it gave him a sense of peace and resolve.

“I’m afraid I do mean it. I cannot begin to tell you how very sorry I am. Hurting you is the last thing I ever wanted; it’s my fault for not having really known my own feelings before I proposed. I thought marriage was something to plan, but I wasn’t considering love. I don’t think either of us will be happy without love in our lives. Not just a dear, dear friendship, but real, true love. I want that for you, Florence; I do. I can’t let you make the terrible mistake of marrying me.”

“But Edward, all I want is to be your wife. It’s all I speak of with my friends. Breaking off our engagement will humiliate me. And who would ever want to marry me, knowing you’ve set me aside? How would I ever find such a love now? I will be marked as damaged goods.” Her sobs grew heavier.

“Florence, you have behaved with perfect propriety. No one would dare question your moral virtue, and I would certainly affirm—publicly, if need be—that you are faultless in all this. I will take every bit of the blame.”

“That’s all very well and good, but our engagement has been publicly announced. I don’t know of any way you could restore me now. This will be my ruin. ”

Drummond suddenly felt at a loss and dropped his head into his hands, as Florence’s sobs continued. How had he thought this would be simple? And why hadn’t he gotten her to agree to postpone the announcement—just until he could have cleared his head? He had to come up with a plan that would leave Florence blameless but release him from his promise.

“Perhaps there might be a way. You know, Sir Robert plans to step down. He’s lost the support of the party, and the Tories will be out of power. I’m soon to be out of a position, at least for the time being. We could say that I released you from our engagement in light of my uncertain future.”

“Do you really think people would believe such a thing?” Florence scoffed. “You may not have entered your family’s business, but everyone knows you would never be bereft of a livelihood. You will always have the means to provide for a wife and family. Such an explanation would convince no one.”

She was right; he was grasping at straws. Her voice, still strangled by crying, had begun to take on an edge of anger. He was quickly losing control of the situation—but of course it served him right for having created it in the first place.

Out of the blue, a thought began to take shape.

“Well, if our engagement was announced in the papers, perhaps its end should be as well.”

“This is a nightmare, Edward. I don’t know what in the world you’re babbling on about.”

“If there’s something I know how to do, it’s draft a convincing argument. I know this is highly unorthodox, but what if I were to write an announcement for the papers to declare the engagement nullified by mutual and amicable decision? You and your family would of course have the ability to approve my draft before I would ever submit it for publication. You can be assured of a fair representation.”  

“What I ought to do is sue you for breach of contract!”

Drummond’s heart sank, but he knew he deserved both her ire and her worst threats.

“I would do it, too,” she continued, “if it wouldn’t put me on a par with the common rabble. The thought of others looking at me as some kind of working-class harpy… it makes my skin crawl. And it would likely seal my fate as an old maid. No one would want to marry me then; I would be forever scorned as a bitter, cast-off woman.”

“You still have all the qualities that made you such an attractive prospect as a wife. I believe I was not your only suitor, was I? There were many eligible bachelors who found you personable, charming, and lovely, and you are still all those things. I simply have to find the words to make it clear this was a decision taken together—nothing that will taint you either way—something that will affirm your suitability as a future wife. I believe I can do it.”

“I suppose there’s no changing your mind, is there?” Florence was sniffling now. Her sobs had died down, but her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and she looked at him with such terrible sadness. He wanted to make it better, but there was only so much he could do.

“Trust me, I’m saving you a world of unhappiness by breaking it off now.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Perhaps that’s true, but it doesn’t relieve the dread I feel at having to show myself in public once this is known. I’ve never felt such shame.”

“The shame is all mine. I promise I will do all in my power to ensure that none of it falls on you.” She was avoiding his eyes, for she looked everywhere, it seemed, except at him.  

“Your reassurances are now making things rather worse. I believe you should go, Edw—Mr. Drummond.” She stifled another sob, and wiped her tears with his handkerchief, which remained twisted and clenched in her hand. Drummond thought better of asking for it back. Instead, he rose, bowed quickly toward her, and turned on his heels to leave. As he slumped out of the room, he could still hear the occasional muffled sob. He left the house with all speed, grateful not to encounter either the Marquess or Marchioness on his way out.

 

* * *

 

He looked forward to a walk in the fresh air after his ordeal. Just the thing to clear his mind and settle his thoughts. But once outside, he found it had started raining quite heavily.

“How à propos,” he mumbled as he buttoned his coat, pulled up the collar, and marched off into the downpour. “It’s just what I deserve.”

He had started to walk back to the House, but there really was no reason to go there again and he hadn’t the ability to concentrate on work.

He supposed he should get dinner somewhere, but he wasn’t in the least bit hungry.

He contemplated going to the Palace and making some excuse to see Alfred, but he would simply end up recounting the ordeal at Florence’s and unfairly burdening him with it.

He thought perhaps he should just go straight home, but he was too restless to imagine sitting still.

So instead, he walked for more than an hour in the driving rain, attracting strange looks—this well-to-do young gentleman walking without purpose or umbrella, his stylish clothing matted and drenched. He moved in a daze, now aware of a burden to somehow extricate Florence from this mess he’d made. It monopolized his thoughts—that is, until memories of Alfred began creeping into his mind with greater frequency and insistence. Just the thought of him lightened Drummond’s heart until he realized that this new burden felt manageable and fleeting when measured alongside his expanding sense of freedom and hope. Back in Scotland, he’d been filled with dread over the prospect of returning to his life in London and what awaited him; that was gone. These several days back had indeed been tense—at times even terrible—but he felt certain that was behind him now.

By the time he reached his room, exhaustion had overtaken him, or perhaps it was simply a sense of peace descending and promising him restful sleep at last. He was just about to fall straight onto his bed before remembering that he really ought to remove his wet clothes. He did so quickly, laying the garments over various pieces of furniture to dry, but not bothering with a nightshirt. He chuckled to himself as he collapsed into bed and pulled the covers tight, “I’m like a newborn babe—naked and free from care.” He turned over and fell almost immediately into a sleep so deep that no dreams—and certainly no nightmares—would threaten to disrupt it.  


End file.
